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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912101">Stand Together on the High Places</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman'>Findswoman</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Lasan Series [20]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Temples, F/M, Festivals, Force Ceremonies, Friendship, Gen, Kissing, Lasan, Lasat (Star Wars), Original planet, Reunions, Romance, Shortly Post-Rebels, Shortly Post-Yavin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 02:01:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,572</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337692/">Shaman, Traveler, Oracle</a> continues with a reunion after long years of exile, loss, and separation...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios &amp; Sabine Wren, Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios/Original Character(s), Original Character(s) &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Lasan Series [20]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/967674</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Once again, I thank my good friends <b>Raissa_Baiard</b> for thoughtful and supportive beta-reading, and <b>aikisenshi</b> the gracious loan of her OCs Sennah, Danyal, and the members of Alloy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b><em>Yavin IV, Yavin System, Gordian Reach</em></b><br/>
<br/>
Sounds of celebration filled Massassi Base. The Rebel Alliance had just won its biggest and most decisive victory yet: the Death Star, the Empire’s gruesome superweapon, had been destroyed. It had been a long and harsh battle, with great loss of life and materiel: only three pilots had come back alive. But at least the biggest threat was now defused, and the civilized Galaxy could breathe a little easier—definitely something worth celebrating.<br/>
<br/>
And, as usual, Captain Garazeb Orrelios was on security duty.<br/>
<br/>
He had mixed feelings about that. It was his job, of course, as security chief, and he carried it out proudly for the Rebellion. And he was just as glad not to have to do any dancing, especially not to that hideous sparkle-bop tripe that all the Humans and near-Humans seemed to go all moofy over. Still, he couldn’t help but wish that he could celebrate with everyone else just once—even if it was just kicking back with a few good comrades-in-arms for a collegial tipple. It was awfully lonely work standing guard outside the Great Temple, and it always got him <em>thinking</em> about things. About days and celebrations gone by. About good old times on the <em>Ghost,</em> or sometimes even all the way back on Lasan. About friends and comrades now gone, never to return. And karabast if there hadn’t been way too many of those lately...<br/>
<br/>
A surprisingly hefty punch to his upper arm, from a surprisingly small fist, startled him from his thoughts. “Hey there, <em>ori’vod.</em>”<br/>
<br/>
“Aw, hey, Sabine.” He pulled her into a one-armed hug as she came up beside him: his little Spectre sister, her hair colored in a festive green-to-orange gradient, her <em>beskar’gam </em>newly repainted in a jungle motif. There was one friend he hadn’t lost, anyway...<br/>
<br/>
“Hey, can I ask you something?” she asked as she disengaged from his hug.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah?”<br/>
<br/>
“So, next month some of us were planning to go to the big festival on Khorassan, and we wondered if you wanted to come with. If we have enough people we can sign out one of the transports.”<br/>
<br/>
“Festival on <em>Coruscant?! </em>What’ve you got, a death wish?!”<br/>
<br/>
“No, no! Not Coru<em>scant,</em> Khoras<em>san.</em> Kanson-Wiss Sector. Outer Rim. Perfectly safe. Anyway, they throw this huge festival each year that people from all over the Galaxy come to. They call it the Days of Love and Light.”<br/>
<br/>
Zeb’s craggy features screwed up in sarcastic disgust at these words. “Aw, <em>nice.</em>”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, come on! It’s not <em>that</em> kind of love at all. It’s more like… er… unconditional good will and brotherhood between one sentient being and another, that sort of thing. It’s an important concept in Khorassani culture.” The Lasat’s only response was a gusty sigh and an incredulous eyeroll; Sabine simply continued. “C’mon, big guy. Three days of culture, music, art, games, food. Food, Zeb. <em>You. Like. Food.</em>” Zeb grunted in annoyance as she punched his upper arm with each word for emphasis. “And then on the very last day there’s a big ceremony where they crown the <em>queen!</em>”<br/>
<br/>
“Wha? Huh? <em>Queen?!</em>” Zeb felt himself seize up at the bitter, tender memory that word sparked in him—</p>
<hr/><p><em>“My queen.” He kissed the stripes at the edge of her face. “My </em>beautiful, alluring<em> queen.” Each word was a kiss on her neck as he coaxed her over to the bed and sat down with her, his hand stroking her waist. “Now how ’bout my </em>beautiful, alluring<em> queen comes to bed so her Honor Guard can </em>keep her safe<em> all night long…”</em></p>
<hr/><p>—and immediately quashed the feeling. “Aw, I dunno,” he said. “This doesn’t really sound like my kinda thing.”<br/>
<br/>
“C’mon, Zeb, please?” Her hazel eyes pleaded with him as she sidled closer, placing a hand gently on his capacious shoulder. “Garel, Atollon, Lothal, Scarif, and now here. We’ve fought hard. And we’ve lost a lot. But today we finally won, finally. So I’d say we deserve a break, don’t you?”<br/>
<br/>
Zeb sighed again and returned the gesture. He looked about; the party was starting to break up, and the various denizens of Massassi Base were beginning to trickle back to their barracks, talking and laughing and joking and crying together. Sabine was right, of course. After all the fighting they’d done, after all they had had to give up, it was time for them—all of them—to give <em>themselves</em> something, for a change. Maybe these Love and Light Days with all their culture and music and food and <em>queen</em> would be all right. If not, he could just play dejarik with Chopper or something.<br/>
<br/>
And hey, even then, it’d at least be a nice change of pace from that confounded stuffy, steamy jungle. Hailing from an arid world, Zeb could never understand how living things could even <em>breathe</em> under such Boganishly humid conditions.<br/>
<br/>
“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll go.”</p>
<hr/><p><b><em>Khorassan, Khorassan System, Kanson-Wiss Sector</em></b><br/>
<br/>
<em>[From another journal of Shulma Trilasha Orrelios.]</em><br/>
<br/>
O radiant spirits, I am trembling!<br/>
<br/>
I trembled the entire journey from Nal Hutta. Even in the calming swirl of hyperspace I felt vision shock looming over me like a predator, its lightnings stabbing relentlessly at me, head and heart, body and soul. If not for Telfien’s care and Sennah’s tea blend they would have claimed me completely (though I am beginning to run low on the tea blend).<br/>
<br/>
I am still trembling, even here, even now, in the honored-guest suite at the culture ministry, with the white whispersilk gown and veils of the Queen of Love and Light hanging before me. Tomorrow I shall wear them when I appear in the parade, and then again, two days later, for the final coronation ceremony in the Temple of Mak-Gu-Fina. They were made to fit me, as they are each year, for each queen. Oh, I can barely look at them—I am no one’s queen!—<br/>
<br/>
What is wrong with me? Should I not be joyous? Haven’t I seen—haven’t you, sovereign Ashla, shown me that this is the place where I shall finally see my lost love? My mighty bristlecone, my Last Warrior of Lasan… oh, I remember the day, that bright day in my humble apartment at Bonvika’s villa—</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>MY QUEEN</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Oh, my head, my currents—</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Those were his words—that is what he said to me as stood in the doorway of my bed alcove, extending his strong arms toward me, before he disappeared (as always)—</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>MY QUEEN oh that was what he called me on our wedding evening, too—</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>O Ashla O sovereign spirit of the universe I need not ask for advice for I understand now—</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>I must go. Because that is where I will find him: not on Yavin but on Khorassan, at the festival, in the temple...</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>But it was only one small vision, one short moment of brightness, and there has been nothing since. No more promptings, no more visions—not even the most fleeting image of him standing before me, or sitting on the bed, or sitting at breakfast. How do I know it was not merely a fever dream or an illusion? Have I taken all I own with me—my clothes, my books, the little remnants of my homeworld—for nothing? (Though for some reason I have not been able to find my old journal, which is why I have begun this one in one of my blank notebooks.)<br/>
<br/>
Worse yet: have I dragged my dear friends on a futile journey?<br/>
<br/>
Telfien and I have tried to meditate together on this question a few times, both in hyperspace and here in Khorassograd, but we can turn up no new insight. Everything, as she would say, is still shrouded in thick fog. We had been hoping to go out to the temple to meditate again, since the Ashla flows so strongly there, but it is closed for the preparations for the ceremony.<br/>
<br/>
So you are withholding your revelation from me, sovereign spirit. I must accept your judgment, but the silence is killing me!<br/>
<br/>
I shall fix myself another pot of tea, and then, for the thousandth time, take a walk in the inner court of the culture ministry. That is another point of frustration: to maintain the secrecy of the Veiled Queen’s identity, I am not permitted to leave the grounds unless I am fully robed and acting in official capacity as the queen—which will not be until the parade tomorrow midday. And that means, of course, that I cannot make any investigations about any off-planet arrivals to the festival, <em>karabast’aka. </em>(I have asked Ardyse G.-S. about this, but she says she does not have access to those records. She of course wondered why I asked; I simply told her I knew someone who might be coming. Ah, but I cannot place any blame on her; she has been a gracious and attentive hostess, and has been visiting me regularly each day since I arrived. It is not her fault that I am essentially a prisoner while I am here. My currents and vision pains are most definitely not her fault.)<br/>
<br/>
My tea is finished boiling. I shall take it with me out to the courtyard. At least it is a pleasant day, and the sweetblossoms are blooming.</p>
<hr/><p>This evening was the rehearsal of the coronation ceremony in the culture ministry auditorium. Ardyse and the festival subcommittee presided over the proceedings, and all the dancers and members of my “court,” as they call it, were there (which seems to consist of half daughters of prominent local families, and half theater and dance students from Khorassograd University). Ardyse and the subcommittee members began by exacting a solemn oath of secrecy from all present, enjoining them not to reveal the identity of the queen (though I don’t think any of them knew who the giant purple woman was, anyway). The musicians were there as well, and with their help we practiced the dances, the procession, and the choreography of the coronation ceremony itself. Everything went smoothly and without incident; there really is not much I have to do besides be conducted up to my throne by the dancers during the procession, and then shine my ancient, Rakata-era light-stylus on the “chosen servant” who will come up to crown me—in this case it was a little bespectacled Human man on the subcommittee who resembled Shaman Rokseth from back home and who was later introduced to me as Deejnits Mekonnensen. All in all, I found it calming to be occupied with something besides my own anxiety.<br/>
<br/>
But what was even more amazing, and completely unexpected: all throughout the rehearsal I was aware of a familiar songlike pull in the Ashla. It seemed to be coming (perhaps unsurprisingly) from the musicians, and once I got a closer look at them I noticed among them the red-brown fur of my old friend and benefactor Sennah, of the Ryn! She was singing, and her husband Danyal, with the dark brown fur and the long hair, was playing lead quetarra. Afterward I went over to greet them; Sennah recognized me, and we exchanged a long embrace as I told her how glad I was to finally see her again and thanked her once again for saving me from that horrible case of vision shock years ago. After the band (called Alloy) had packed up and stowed its equipment, she came with me to the courtyard, where we talked a long time. She shared news of her family and friends in Alloy and on board the <em>Second Chance,</em> and I told her of my own doings as well: my Osthi publication with KhU Press, recent travels with the <em>Rose Evergreen,</em> and the loss of Lua’s son. She said she had heard of that expedition and asked me to pass on her condolences.<br/>
<br/>
Since Sennah too harbors the spark of the Ashla, I confided to her about the vision of G. I experienced soon after receiving the invitation to be queen. She perked up as I told her, then told me that she had once seen him, very briefly, at one of the Rebel Alliance’s installations (on Atollon, I believe it was). Everything about her description matched him perfectly (yes, even the way she described his “Ashla-song”!). My heart surged with joy to learn that my brave husband had indeed joined the larger Alliance, just as the Ashla had once hinted to me. But what made my heart surge even higher: Sennah told me that an Alliance transport ship was docked at the main spaceport near her own, presumably having come for the festival. Of course she could not say whether my husband was likely to have been one of its passengers. She mentioned the names of some others who might be with him—a Lieutenant Commander Renn? a General Sindoola?—though I do not know who those are. And of course I cannot go to the spaceport myself to investigate; neither can Sennah, really, with her own responsibilities and those of the band.<br/>
<br/>
But I believe I have a plan. Glockel said I could contact Rika if I needed any errands run…</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The fanon planet of Khorassan, the Days of Love and Light festival, its queen, and its associated customs and festivities appeared previously at various points throughout <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337692/">Shaman, Traveler, Oracle</a>, most notably the very last chapter. The OCs that appear in this story have all appeared there as well: Ardyse Goldfleck-Straz (Human culture minister of Khorassan), Telfien (Gand Findswoman), Glockel (Human spacer/pilot), Rika (astromech droid), and of course Sennah and Danyal, borrowed from <b>aikisenshi</b>. (<b>aikisenshi</b> is indeed planning a story where her OCs meet the crew of the <i>Ghost,</i> which explains how Sennah knows “Lieutenant Commander Renn” and “General Sindoola.”)</p><p>Throughout this story you will see <i>italicized</i> segments placed between separators, by way of flashback. They are excerpts from previous stories in my <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/967674">Lasan Series</a> or from other closely related stories.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b><em>Khorassan, Kanson-Wiss Sector</em></b><br/><br/>Captain Garazeb Orrelios wasn’t so sure about this whole Days of Love and Light thing.<br/><br/>Karabast, just getting to Khorassan had been a pain, what with the whole blockade business. General Madine had made sure to secure the group of Rebels a “temporary travel permit” or whatever it was called—of course, Zeb still bristled at the very idea of having to submit to Imperial rules, but it wasn’t up to him. But even that very thoughtful precaution on the general’s part hadn’t kept the whole expedition from being detained for hours at blockade control on various trumped-up technicalities (typical Imps). It was ultimately only thanks to the hotshot piloting skills of that Mattin kid that they’d managed to jump to hyperspace in a timely manner at all. And it definitely didn’t hurt that they’d thought to sign out the lightest and most maneuverable of the transport frigates (the <em>Amarcordia</em>—ancient Alderaanian word for “memory” or something).<br/><br/>The hyperspace journey itself had gone without incident, but once they arrived and docked on Khorassan, Zeb had barely had any time to get settled before the others dragged him off to the big Love and Light Parade. There they spent what felt like hours sitting there watching float after float after float showcasing seemly every single cultural organization, business agency, artist colony, youth group, and amateur musical society in the entire Kanson-Wiss Sector, all the while being pelted by the denizens of said floats with candy, flowers, trinkets, packets of facial-flimsi, and other souvenirs (at one point a water bottle had clocked him on one ear). Sabine, who of course had spent the hyperspace trip reading all sorts of art and culture books about Khorassan and its sectormates, kept up a running commentary on the history and symbolism of the float designs, decorations, colors, costumes, formations, dance moves, and so on. Zeb simply tuned her out after a while, because karabast if it all didn’t look the same to him.<br/><br/>He breathed a sigh of relief when the last and biggest float appeared, carrying the Veiled Queen and her court of dancers and attendants, though from what he could see this wonderful, amazing queen everyone had been talking about wasn’t all that interesting after all. While her dancers were prancing around in flowy green and pink dresses and jeweled breastplates and throwing flowers to the crowd, she just looked like… well, a pile of white sheets or curtains or laundry or something, just sitting there at the top of the float and not moving. (Except he thought he saw her maybe… <em>wobble,</em> kind of? Just once? Might have been his imagination, though.)<br/><br/>The games and athletic competitions began soon afterward, with everything from serious athletic events like marksmanship, wrestling, weight lifting, gravball, and track and field to the silly stuff like darts, ring toss, three-appendaged races, nuna-egg-and-spoon races, ryshcate walks, and of course the sausage-eating contest. It reminded Zeb of the Storms’ End fairs he used to go to back home on Lasan, and he allowed himself a few moments of reminiscence...</p><hr/><p>
  <em>The southern part of the parade grounds were given over to the carnival games and booths, but the northern end hosted some of the festival’s sporting events, like wrestling and weight-lifting. Others, like the rock climbing, bo-rifle marksmanship, and javelin competitions were held in the canyons on the outskirts of Lira Zel, though the registration for all of them was held in the northwest corner. The Guard’s quartermaster, a scar-faced Lasat, was signing up competitors by event and age group...</em>
</p><hr/><p>Just like back then, Zeb thought he might try his skill at wrestling, weight lifting, and the track events, but his entry was rejected on the grounds that his size and build would give him an unfair advantage over other competitors. (“And that would be against the Spirit of Love and Light,” the grandfatherly Human running the sign-ups very earnestly told him.) So he tried marksmanship instead, where he came in third behind Sabine and some short little insectoid with big, round golden eyes. He considered the sausage-eating contest as well, but was dissuaded in the strongest terms by his comrades. At least he had been able to find some pretty good fried exosquidra on a stick from one of the food carts set up in the main park, but they didn’t have any of the hot pepper sauce that he liked—just a sort of cheap, greasy tarta-remoolahd type stuff.<br/><br/>At the end of the day Zeb felt so tired, frustrated, and irritable that he decided to skip out on going to the opening festival banquet with the others and head back to the <em>Amarcordia.</em> Finally he’d get some time to relax after all that festival silliness, maybe listen to some music or see what was on the holovid.<br/><br/>That was when he saw the note.<br/><br/>Someone had spacer-taped it to the doorway leading to the <em>Amarcordia</em>’s docking bay. It was written very neatly on a standard-size sheet of white flimsi and read simply, “I hope to see you at the coronation.”<br/><br/>In Lasat.<br/><br/>His native language. How long had it been? Karabast, he thought he’d forgotten it all. And whoever wrote it used the really fancy, proper Lasat handwriting, too. <em>That</em> he hadn’t seen in a <em>really </em>long time...<br/><br/>Zeb glanced around nervously, his heart pounding. Did this mean there was some other Lasat here, on Khorassan, at the festival? Who must have known he was here, because no one else from the <em>Amarcordia</em> spoke or read Lasat (they had deliberately neglected to invite that annoying protocol droid who was always bragging about how many languages he knew). But how?<br/><br/>He wanted to find out, and yet he didn’t. The last time he had seen any of his people had been years ago, now—his old lieutenant Gron Stultzfoss and that Chava the Wise lady, both of whom were now residing safely on Lira San. Chava had tasked him with finding others of his people and showing them the way back to the ancient homeworld. But never in a million dust seasons did he think he’d actually find any others and have to do that. Aw karabast, he wasn’t ready for this…<br/><br/>At least he knew what the coronation was: the big foofy ceremony at the end of the festival where they crowned the Veiled Queen and all that. He’d been secretly hoping to skip out on that, too, but now…<br/><br/>Zeb tore the note from the door, folded it, and hurried back to his cabin on the <em>Amarcordia,</em> where he stashed it under his pillow.</p><hr/><p><b><em>Continuation of the Journal of Shulma Trilasha Orrelios</em></b><br/><br/>He is here.<br/><br/>O holy Ashla, <em>he is here!</em><br/><br/>I felt his spark during the parade. It <em>was</em> his—I could tell from the way it shook me, the way it pierced my very core, the way my eyes and fingertips tingled. O Spirits! I nearly fell from my seat atop the parade float.<br/><br/><em>Akh karabast’aka,</em> how I hate having my movements so restricted! Besides the official opening of the main festival stage tomorrow morning, I shall be pretty much stuck here all day. All I can do now is hope and pray that this plan of mine will work and that the message I had Rika leave will reach him. (She says it was gone when she went to check, but it could just as well have been taken down by a maintenance crew or by someone else.)<br/><br/>Thankfully I have my books and my last little bit of tea. I have been rereading that beautiful passage about the Child and the Seer from the eighteenth prophecy of Osthi’s <em>Stronghold:</em></p><hr/><p>
  <em>And grasping the sheer rock the Child began to climb up to her; and when he reached her she gathered him to her, and said unto him: “Be not troubled, beloved Child of Lasan: you have had many trials and shall have many more, but I shall remain with you and guide you, and gently cleanse you.” And she wrapped him in her cloak so that her rustling light enfolded him…</em>
</p><hr/><p>Ah, I, too, must remember those words of consolation!</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>“that Mattin kid”: <a href="https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mart_Mattin">https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Mart_Mattin</a><br/><br/><em>Amarcordia:</em> The ship name and its meaning in Alderaanian is fanon. In real life, <em>amarcord </em>(<em>a m’arcord</em>) means “I remember” in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romagnol_dialect">Romagnol</a>. I know it as the name of <a href="https://colbertartists.com/artists/amarcord/">this men’s vocal ensemble</a>, but it is also the title of <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amarcord">a semi-autobiographical comedy film</a> by Federico Fellini, and because of that film the word has acquired the meaning of “a fond reminiscence” in modern Italian.<br/><br/>Storms’ End: A fanon Lasat festival created by Raissa_Baiard, described in our <a href="http://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430">Lasat fanon post</a>.<br/><br/>fried exosquidra on a stick: A delicacy (!) I first encountered in Raissa_Baiard’s <a href="https://boards.theforce.net/threads/a-very-serious-mission-rebels-2017-holiday-fic-gift-for-warmnyota-_sweetayesha.50047923/">A Very Serious Mission?</a><br/><br/>“that annoying protocol droid who was always bragging about how many languages he knew”: C-3PO, of course.<br/><br/>Gron Stultzfoss: <a href="https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Gron">https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Gron</a>. His last name is my own fanon, based on the RL surname Stoltzfuss, “proud foot.”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter features live-recorded music! See the notes at the end for details and links. Once again, I thank <b>aikisenshi</b> for the gracious loan of the OCs of the orchestra Alloy.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the third evening of the Days of Love and Light, Captain Garazeb Orrelios wished he were just on security duty.<br/>
<br/>
His second and third days at the festival had been pretty much like his first. Same overenthusiastic comrades yanking him out of bed and pulling him around town, same running commentary about local art and culture, same long and boring events, same kitschy market booths, same turndowns at the games and competitions, same fried exosquidra on a stick. Oh yeah, and same Veiled Pile of Fabric—er, Veiled Queen, too (at least for about ten minutes while she and her dancer cronies opened the main festival stage on the morning of the second day).<br/>
<br/>
But almost none of it mattered to Zeb anymore, because all he could think about was that note <em>in Lasat </em>from the docking bay door. That meant one of his own people was around the place somewhere, and Zeb wasn’t going to rest until he had found them. He had made a point of scanning the crowds carefully everywhere he went, even letting Sabine drag him to the hideous evening lectures and receptions at the culture ministry. It should have been easy; after all, it wasn’t as though one of his people would be hard to spot, what with being big and distinctively colored and all. And yet he had still not seen so much of a stripe of the mysterious Other Lasat. (He’d said nothing about this to Sabine or the others, of course. It was none of their business, anyway.)<br/>
<br/>
And now, on the evening of the third day, here he was at the Temple of Mak-Gu-Fina, where all the festival goers (or at least those who had bought tickets) were assembling for the culminating coronation ceremony. The temple was a massive and ancient Rakata-era structure located at some distance outside Khorassograd, and Zeb had to admit the place was quite impressive. A dark, vaulted ceiling rose high above the room, and not far below small, blue windows were set like gems into the black stone walls, whose intricate carvings—some of ancient runes, some of abstract designs, some of more determinate images—reached from the ceiling down to the floor. From the center of the room, steps made of the same black stone ascended to a plain, broad, altar-like platform, on which sat a cubical black stone topped with velvoid cushions and drapings. Adjoining the altar steps on either side, a little less than halfway up, were two recessed balconies, one of which held a group of what seemed to be local notables and officials, the other the orchestra—which was none other than the mostly Ryn group that had performed to enthusiastic applause on the festival main stage the day before. Tables and a cash bar had been set up for the comfort of the attendees, who at this point were engaged in various combinations of milling merrily, sipping their drinks of choice, and admiring the surrounding architecture.<br/>
<br/>
The Rebels from the <em>Amarcordia</em> had arrived fairly early and staked out a group of tables close to the altar stairs, but Zeb had made a point of stationing himself at the one farthest back, where he could all the more easily keep an eye on everyone who entered and exited through the gigantic, rune-inscribed metal front doors. There he now sat, sipping a dark New Blarrus ale from the cash bar and onlyhalfway listening to Sabine’s running commentary on the iconography of First Rakatan Era stone carvings.<br/>
<br/>
And waiting. And waiting. And karabasting <em>waiting.</em><br/>
<br/>
Every time the doors swung open, every time the protocol droid beside them announced the name of some newcomer, Zeb would perk up and turn and look, heart pounding like the very Bogan, in case it might finally be the Other Lasat. And every time, it turned out to be some random partygoer, most of the time in some kind of twee evening attire, most of the time some variety of Human or humanoid. (Well, except for when it had been that little gold-eyed insectoid that had placed first in themarksmanship competition. But that had been it.)<br/>
<br/>
And every time, Zeb would heave a sigh of mixed disappointment and relief and go back to sipping his ale and listening to Sabine’s art commentary. And the process would begin again.<br/>
<br/>
This whole thing was beginning to wear on him. First, there was the nervous strain of it all, from the constant cycle of anticipation and letdown to the very prospect of even just <em>maybe</em> seeing another Lasat after so long, and knowing it would be his responsibility to show them the way to Lira San. Second was just plain, simple frustration: there was less than half an hour to go before the coronation ceremony was scheduled to start, and there was still no sign of any Other Lasat anywhere in theroom. Part of him even began to wonder if someone was having him on—maybe one of those Rogue Squadron rascals, because, after all, people capable of replacing all the knives in Sabine’s <em>cu’bikad</em> set with rubber theatrical props were people capable of anything. But how would <em>they</em> know how to write like <em>that?</em><br/>
<br/>
Besides, there was just <em>something</em> about this Temple of Mark-Gu-Fina place. With all its ancient runes and dark nooks and crannies, this place put him in mind of the stories Kanan and Ezra used to tell him about that Lothal Jedi Temple—the one that was liable to sink into the ground and take you with it if you made one false step. And there had <em>always </em>been something about mystical, temple-type places that spooked him a little, made him feel like he wasn't really supposed to be there...</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>Zeb glanced around, taking in the stark beauty of the tomb chamber: the flat stone walls, the flickering glow of the lightning torches in the corners of the room, the recumbent sculpture of the prophetess with the Ashla’s blade piercing her heart, and the bursts of jewel-like color from the four windows, one set into each wall. The windows intrigued him. On three of them, the ones with the blue, green, and yellow backgrounds, he could discern the images of the Warrior, the Child, and the Fool—familiar, storied figures known to every Lasat kit. But he wasn’t sure about the fourth window, the red one at the far end of the room, which showed a female shaman gesturing to a book that she held openbefore her. Was it a portrait of Osthi herself? Whoever it was seemed to be staring straight at him, straight through him...</em>
</p>
<p></p><div>
  <hr/>
  <p>At least the music was nice. The Ryn group had done a great job at their performance the day before, and they were doing mighty fine now—Zeb found if he focused on them he could easily tune out Sabine’s ancient Rakatan art commentary. The dark one with the long, sandy hair played quite the mean quetarra, and the reddish-orange one had a nice singing voice. They reminded him of two Ryn who had come to Chopper Base a couple years before to deliver food and supplies. And come to think of it, one of them had said something about one of his people looking for him, hadn’t they? He’dthought nothing of it at the time, but now...</p>
  <p>Finally, the chandeliers and sconces dimmed, the musicians finished their piece and faded to silence, and slowly the milling and conversation quieted all throughout the room. A shortish, middle-aged Human woman with bright pink lipstick and equally bright pink spiked hair (“Gatalentan civility dye,” according to Sabine) approached the front of the room, ascended about a third of the way up the altar stairs, and began speaking.</p>
  <p>“Ladies, gentlemen, and others! On behalf of the culture ministry of Khorassan, the Kanson-WissSector Fine Arts Board, and the Mak-Gu-Fina Temple Historical Preservation Society, it is my <em>immense</em>pleasure to welcome <em>each and every one of you</em> once again, with open heart and arms, in the name of the universal love that unites all sentient beings... to the concluding ceremonies of the <em>5201st Days of Love and Light!</em>” Applause ensued. “And now, we ask for your deference and attention as the Veiled Queen of Love and Light enters with her retinue to begin the solemn coronation rites. Please silence your personal communications devices, and note that no recording devices are permitted for the duration of the ceremony. Thank you all for your cooperation, and may the love that binds the stars be with you all!”</p>
  <p>The assembled guests applauded again as the pink-haired Human stepped down and to one side, and the musicians struck up a mellow, dignified march. Zeb sighed into his ale. He had now been there for almost two full hours without any sign of anything even slightly resembling another Lasat, and now the ceremony was going to start for real. Which meant he was stuck here until the whole long, boring thing was over, with nowhere to go, nothing to do, and probably no chance of ever meeting thiskarabasting Other Lasat at all. Karabast, karabast, <em>karabast.</em></p>
  <p>Meanwhile, the large front doors had swung open, and the court dancers were now marching into the temple in a close-knit, lattice-like formation. Zeb eyed them closely as they entered. Cute enough, and the jeweled breastplate things were nice and pretty and sparkly, but all of them were Humans or near-Humans, of course (except for what looked like one more Ryn). As they reached the front of the room and fanned out into a semicircular pattern, the music swelled, the front doors swung open again, and the Veiled Queen was carried in on a litter by six Human attendants. (“Weird,” noted Sabine, “it’s usually four, symbolizing ‘mind,’ ‘body,’ ‘heart,’ and ‘spirit.’”) Two more followed (both Human, kark them), fanning the amorphous queen with giant fans on poles. The dancers bowed reverently as the queen was carried to the top of the altar stairs, and two of them helped her from the litter and led her to sit on the cushion-covered stone cube. Once she was seated (and reprising her impeccableimpression of a laundry pile), the music changed again, and the dancers began dancing.</p>
  <p>And kept dancing. And danced some more. And some more. And after that did another dance.</p>
  <p>Zeb quickly lost count of how many dances they actually did. At this point, he was just letting it all wash over him. Occasionally Sabine would explain the symbolic meaning of one of the formations, or Wes or Hobbie would let out an obnoxious whoop or whistle in the dancers’ direction, but Zeb was barely paying them any attention. He found his eyes wandering again and again back to the front doors, just in case—and again and again he saw nothing…</p>
  <p>“Hey, <em>ori’vod,</em> everything all right?”</p>
  <p>Karabast. Zeb might have tuned out Sabine’s commentary, but she had apparently not tuned him out. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered in a growling whisper, without looking at her. “Fine. Just fine.”</p>
  <p>“You just seem a little… preoccupied, is all.”</p>
  <p>“Me?! Preoccupied?! What makes you think I’m <em>preoccupied?!</em>”</p>
  <p>“Oh, just the way you keep looking at the doors every few—” She stopped suddenly, her eyes lighting up with a mischievous gleam as she sidled closer to Zeb. “Ooh, Zeb, are you <em>waiting </em>for someone?”</p>
  <p>Zeb turned on her with a scowl. “Now where d’you get—”</p>
  <p>“Oh, tell me who it is, Zeb!” She had him in a teasing side hug now. “I promise I won’t blab. What goes on at the festival stays at the festival, hee hee hee!”</p>
  <p>“IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!” Zeb rejoined as he pulled from her grip, loudly enough to elicit shushes from two adjacent tables.</p>
  <p>“All right, all right, fine. Then what <em>is</em> it? C’mon, you can tell your <em>vod’ika.</em>”</p>
  <p>And karabast again. He’d been hoping to avoid this. But this <em>was </em>Sabine, after all, not one of those obnoxious Rogues or one of the Iron Squadron rugrats. (Even if it <em>was </em>thanks to Mart that they’d made it here at all—but Zeb wasn’t going to admit that right now.) “Well—er—erm—well, y’see—there was this <em>note</em>—”</p>
  <p>He was cut off by sudden, vehement shushing from the neighboring tables as the pink-haired woman’s voice boomed once more throughout the room:</p>
  <p>“And now the Veiled Queen of Love and Light descends from her lofty throne to choose one being from among the assembled guests who will place on her head the ancient tiara set with the Heart of Mak-Gu-Fina, crowning her true monarch of all amity and goodwill in this Galaxy of ours!”</p>
  <p>Zeb looked up. All was much quieter in the temple now. The music had stopped except for a single low, sustained drone note from the lower register of the orchestra’s keyboard instrument. Thedancers stood stock still in formation on the altar steps, all facing the Veiled Queen, who now stood on one of the middle steps with two dancers on either side of her. He noticed that she was much taller than any of them, almost a head taller…</p>
  <p>One of the dancers standing next to the queen handed her something that looked like a very long, thin stylus. As she held it up, one end began to glow bright green, like one of those light-pointer things General Madine sometimes used in his debriefings. Turning from side to side, the queen began to move it back and forth across the room, back and forth, back and forth, again and again, until—</p>
  <p>“Come forward, chosen servant.”</p>
  <p>Several things happened at once. The amplified, disembodied voice echoed again through the room. A wave of murmurs began to ripple through the crowd, culminating in gasps and exclamations from the <em>Amarcordia</em> Rebels. And all the eyes in the room, including those of the Veiled Queen and her dancers, turned toward—</p>
  <p>“<em>Wayii, </em>Zeb! It’s you! Quick! Go up!”</p>
  <p>“Wai—wha—huh—aw, karabast...” Zeb’s jaw dropped as he noticed that the point of green light from the queen’s stylus now shone fixedly on the breastplate of his armor, directly over the painted image of Big Bongo the joopa.</p>
  <p>How could this be? Certainly this was some mistake—she must have meant Sabine or Wedge or the unassuming-looking Barolian businessman one table over. Not him. But no, the point of light was absolutely, stubbornly motionless.</p>
  <p>“Wait, so—okay—whaddami supposed t’—”</p>
  <p>Sabine huffed out an exasperated sigh. “You go up there and put the tiara on her head!”</p>
  <p>“Tiara? What the—? Where d’you see a—”</p>
  <p>“COME FORWARD, CHOSEN SERVANT.”</p>
  <p>“It’s up there! On that cart… thing!”</p>
  <p>“Cart… thing?” Zeb looked again and saw it: a metal cart had been wheeled up to the foot of the steps by a Human child all in white, who was staring at him too. On the cart was some kind of large metal lockbox and what seemed to be a few potted plants, though Zeb couldn’t tell for sure.</p>
  <p>“COME FORWARD, CHOSEN SERVANT,” boomed the voice again.</p>
  <p>“Yeah, <em>chosen servant,</em> any day now,” Hobbie called over from the next table. Laughter arose from all the nearby Rebels except Sabine, who hissed, “Will you JUST GO ALREADY!”—an utterance that she punctuated with a surprisingly hefty one-handed shove.</p>
  <p>“Right.” Zeb took a deep breath and strode to the front of the room. He was a Lasan High Honor Guard. He could (at least in principle) run from Lira Zel to the Northern Plateaus with a broken leg, a concussion, and a gut wound if he had to. So surely he could stick a <em>tiara</em> on top of a pile of sheets, couldn’t he? Of course he could. He opened the metal box, took out the tiara, and looked at it for a moment—mighty fine piece of craftsmanship, if he did say so himself, with that big pretty greenish stone in the middle. Right, so far so good. Now all he had to do was put it on her...</p>
  <p>“THE VEILED QUEEN AWAITS THE CHOSEN SERVANT.”</p>
  <p>...and now, somehow, she was back at the very top of the altar-pyramid-thing. Zeb breathed in and began climbing the stone stairs, one by one by one, feeling the eyes of the crowd boring into him with each step. Karabast, there were a lot of them, and they were <em>steep,</em> too… Meanwhile, the orchestra’s drone note had grown louder, as if other instruments had joined in.</p>
  <p>But as he went, Zeb’s sensitive ears found themselves picking up another sound, too. It was the sound of singing: soft, slow, distant singing that was perfectly in tune with the drone. He couldn’t tell who it was or where it was or what it was or even if it was just his imagination. But there was something about it that seemed just a tiny bit… familiar, maybe? And it, too, seemed to be increasing ever so slightly in volume with each step...</p>
  <p>At last Zeb reached the top. The Veiled Queen stood a meter or so in front of him, as faceless and motionless as ever. She really <em>was</em> tall—only a little shorter than he was. And there was a whiff of a <em>scent</em> coming from her too. A familiar scent, almost like—wait, no—how could it be possible—</p>
  <p>
    <em>Was the Veiled Queen the Other Lasat?</em>
  </p>
  <p>Time to find out, he reckoned. He cleared his throat and took a step closer. “Er, hello.”</p>
  <p>She took a step closer to him, too. He heard nothing but the drone note and more of the soft singing. And then he realized: it was coming from her, and it <em>was </em>familiar...</p>
  <p>
    <em>“Keeraw, Lasan, keeraw,<br/>
Our honor shall defend thee…”</em>
  </p>
  <p>The hymn of the Lasan High Honor Guard. Sung softly and slowly above the drone note, as if it were a tender lullaby. And that voice, THAT VOICE—</p>
  <p>
    <em>“For thee our roars we raise,<br/>
For thee our bo-rifles blaze…”</em>
  </p>
  <p>No. No. KARABAST, NO. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be <em>her.</em> She’d been killed in the Siege witheveryone else, right? RIGHT? But—</p>
  <p>
    <em>“Thy foes shall cringe in awe;<br/>
Keeraw, Lasan, keeraw!”</em>
  </p>
  <p>He was going mad. That was the only possible explanation. It was all an illusion, all of it—the note on the door, the scent, the song, the voice, everything. All the death and horror he’d seen over the years must have finally caught up with him. That, or that New Blarrus ale was a lot stronger stuff than he’d thought…</p>
  <p>The amplified voice jolted him. “THE CHOSEN SERVANT SHALL NOW CROWN THE VEILED QUEEN OF LOVE AND LIGHT WITH THE ANCIENT TIARA OF MAK-GU-FINA.”</p>
  <p>No, no, NO! He was NOT shaking and his hands were NOT sweating and his stomach was NOTfluttering! Karabast it all, he was an HONOR GUARD!</p>
  <p>Right. Time to get this over with, then head back to town to the ship and sleep this off. Other Lasat or no Other Lasat, the nervous strain was just too much. And no one else needed to see him like this.</p>
  <p>Gingerly he set—almost dropped—the tiara onto the queen’s veiled head. Just as he did, its central green-pink gem caught the light of the chandeliers and sent up a brilliant white gleam. The musicians struck up a triumphant flourish, the room exploded in applause and cheers—and Zeb turned and ran back down the stairs as quickly as he possibly could.</p>
  <p>“Zeb, that was awesome! You did great!” Sabine extended her arms to him as he neared their table, but he blustered past without looking at her. “Hey, what’s the matter? You all right?”</p>
  <p>“I don’t feel so good,” he growled back, barging his way through the crowd toward the giant metal doors. The droids guarding them remonstrated and tried to block his way, but he shoved them apart, pushed open the doors, and left. He did not hear the applause turn to gasps and screams moments later, as the Veiled Queen herself, defying all the dancers’ and droids’ attempts to hold her back, tore down the steps and through the crowd after him.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The mostly Ryn music group is, of course, <b>aikisenshi</b>’s group Alloy, borrowed with her permission; see notes to <a href="">chapter 1</a>.<br/><br/>Gatalentan civility dye: Fanon, though note that <a href="https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Gatalenta">Gatalenta</a> is the homeworld of another notable pink-haired woman: Vice Admiral Amilyn Holdo. My character here, Culture Minister Ardyse Goldfleck-Straz, is a native of Khorassan, but I was thinking she might also have some Gatalentan parentage and heritage.<br/><br/>The potted plants are meat to be <a href="https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Olbio_tree">olbio trees</a>, the favored food of Force-blocking ysalamiri.<br/>“run from Lira Zel to the Northern Plateaus with a broken leg, a concussion, and a gut wound if he had to”: Though it’s not set off as an extract or flashback, this, too, is a quote from a previous Lasan Series story. Lira Zel is our fanon capital of Lasan.<br/><br/>The Honor Guard hymn: Words and music by yours truly. Yes, there is music, too! <a href="https://soundcloud.com/user254680063/keeraw-lasan-keeraw">Here</a> is the song at full volume and tempo, and <a href="https://soundcloud.com/user254680063/keeraw-lasan-keeraw-soft">here</a> it is sung more softly and slowly, over a drone note, the way it might have been heard in this scene. Both recordings are performed by me. This use of “keeraw” (cf. <a href="https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Boosahn_Keeraw">https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Boosahn_Keeraw</a>) riffs on <a href="https://fuzzydemolitionsquad.tumblr.com/post/183452475682/sabotage">this poem</a> by my good friend and accomplished Lasat fanon creator <b>fuzzydemolitionsquad</b>, to whom I also offer this song as an homage.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once the Temple of Mak-Gu-Fina was out of sight, Zeb slowed his pace. He was in a vast, sloping, shrub-dotted meadowland that opened eastward onto bare, grassy prairie and ascended westward to rolling hills and distant, majestic redstone bluffs. It was a pleasant night, clear and starlit, not too cool and not too warm, and two blue-white moons shone down from opposite sides of the sky. Nocturnal insects were sending up their distant, sleepy chorus; here and there fireflies twinkled.<br/><br/>Zeb stopped a moment to catch his breath and get his bearings. He was pretty sure he had seen hills or bluffs or both on the hoverbus ride from town, so that was the direction he turned his steps. He knew he should probably check his commlink compass to be sure, but he didn’t want to hang around, in case any inquisitive folk from the festival might have decided to follow him.<br/><br/>So he walked on. And on. And on, as wispy clouds rolled in to screen the stars and the wind ruffled the shrubs. And, as always when he walked alone, he began <em>thinking</em> about things.<br/><br/>He thought of that veiled laundry pile of a Festival Queen standing on the pyramidal altar structure back in the temple. Of the scent of his people and the song of his people, both which he’d sworn he’d caught coming from her. Of the note on the docking bay door, and of the task Wise Chava had charged him with that day aboard the <em>Phantom,</em> that day now so long ago: <em>go forth, Child of Lasan, and bring the scattered remnants of your people to their new-ancient home.</em><br/><br/>He thought of that new-ancient home. He hadn’t been able to stay long, but he remembered the lambent gold sky, the groves of intoxicatingly fragrant flowering trees. He remembered the thousands of green, brown, red, and amber eyes—Lasat eyes!—that had looked at him, so full of awe and hope, as he stepped out of the <em>Phantom.</em> He remembered the cliffs and bluffs, the most beautiful he had ever seen. They had been much like those now rising out of the ground before him, from loose stones to spiky outcroppings to ridges to lofty, sky-brushing heights. Only, instead of red, they had been bright, milky white—<br/><br/>—like that Festival Queen, karabast her. That rag-heap Festival Queen who had smelled like a Lasat and sung like a Lasat and—<br/><br/>Karabast, how could he have been so blind and stupid? He had had the opportunity to reach out to one of his people and bring them home. And what had he done? He had turned and bolted like a frightened pocket hare. He had shirked his duty to his people, all because of his silly fears and doubts. It had been a cowardly thing to do, unworthy of an Honor Guard of Lasan. If he could even be called that anymore…<br/><br/>The bluffs now loomed before him in their full height, dawn-red and richly striated. With a roar of combined anger and exertion, Zeb jumped up and grabbed their craggy surface with all four appendages. His claws dug deep into the rock, sending red-gray rubble crumbling to the ground. Summoning all his native strength and agility, he began to climb, pulling himself from crag to crag, crevice to crevice, handhold to handhold. Higher and higher he went, and faster and faster, grappling with the rock face in ancient, elemental motions that were part combat, part dance, and as simple as walking. The grunts and curses of his effort pierced the still of the night. Rock dust continued to rain down with each mighty grip, and cliff-dwelling birds scattered from their perches. Higher still, faster still, fiercer still. <em>If you can walk, you can climb,</em> his people had always said—and there was nothing like a good climb for taking one’s mind off things and blowing off steam. Especially for blowing off steam.<br/><br/>After some minutes Zeb paused to catch his breath and get his bearings. He was surprised to find himself more than halfway up, almost two-thirds of the way—well, that was what strong emotion could do, he supposed. Cautiously he turned his head to glance at the landscape below; it looked so strange with its tiny shrubs and hills and rocks, like a model or a toy. He was surprised at how much he could hear from up here and turned his ears side to side to take in the sounds: birds calling to each other, the chirping of nocturnal insects, the distant roar of speeder traffic from the main thoroughfare, the purling of a waterfall—<br/><br/>A waterfall? Here? He hadn’t seen any rivers or streams or other bodies of water on his hike through the meadows. Though that didn’t mean there weren’t any…<br/><br/>Zeb twitched his ears to follow the sound. It was coming from his right, from the north, and probably from not too far away. Very carefully, very slowly, he began to maneuver laterally and upward along the surface of the bluff, in a gradual diagonal line. Eventually a narrow ledge began to poke out from the striated rock, at just about the height of his neck. With some effort, he hoisted himself onto it, then pulled himself up to standing and began to move sideways along it, supporting himself with his hands.<br/><br/>He followed the ledge, and the sound of the water, along the surface of the bluff until a sharp bend led him into a tightly curved, arc-shaped canyon. A small waterfall was indeed playing at its center, splashing merrily into a deep-cobalt pool below. Lush mosses patched the red rock around the cascade, while the flowers of small, saxicolous plants made occasional tiny splashes of color.<br/><br/>It was beautiful scenery and all, but what really caught Zeb’s attention was the figure he saw atop the bluff, pacing beside the source of the waterfall. Wrapped in so many white cloaks or veils that it looked like a tent, and wearing what looked like... a crown?<br/><br/><em>The Veiled Laundry-Pile Festival Queen?</em><br/><br/>Here? How? Why? <em>Karabast, now I’ve really gone crazy,</em> part of him said. But even the stone in the crown was the right color. He hadn’t seen her—or anyone else—while walking through the meadow, but it was a <em>big</em> meadow...<br/><br/>Right. Illusion or no illusion, Other Lasat or no Other Lasat, now was his chance to get this done with. Time for him to do it right. For Lasan. For Lira San.<br/><br/>Zeb threw himself onto the rockface again and climbed with all his strength and speed, not stopping until he reached the top of the cliff. He walked up to face the veiled figure, inclining his head slightly and placing hand over fist in the traditional formal Lasat salute.<br/><br/>“Er, hello there... I’m Zeb, and I... er... who are you?”<br/><br/>The queen said nothing. First she took the tiara from her head and looped it over her wrist. Then she placed her hands, also completely wrapped in white, on Zeb’s hands and guided them to the hem of the veil that covered her face. Together, slowly, both pairs of hands began to lift it and pull it back.<br/><br/>First the creamy, silky lilac fur. Then the wispy, wine-colored cheek stripes. The finely limned features. The emerald eyes with the deep inner glow.<br/><br/>And finally the hair—the long, luscious midnight-purple hair.<br/><br/>The Other Lasat.<br/><br/><em>Her.</em><br/><br/>“Shulma...” Zeb’s eyes gaped and his voice quavered. “No... no...”<br/><br/>“Yes... oh Zeb, Zeblove, my Gara—”<br/><br/>She crumpled forward onto his breast, overcome with tears. Zeb encircled her at once in his arms and pressed her tightly, vehemently close. It was no illusion. The feel of her against him, the scent of her hair, even the tender spasms of her weeping all said yes: yes, this is her.<br/><br/>His Other Lasat. His Shulma. His beloved wife whom he’d failed to save from the Empire’s destruction, who had been lost for so many years—now back in his arms here on this red cliff, here on this strange world. Against all odds, against all reason.<br/><br/>And NO! He was an Honor Guard and a seasoned freedom fighter and he was NOT going to—<br/><br/>Too late. Burning tears had already filled his eyes and were streaming down his cheeks, soaking his beard and jaw-fringe. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth only made them fall faster, hotter, and more heavily. Several times he tried to begin speaking: “Oh, darlin’,” then “H-how did you—,” then “Aw karabast”—but his words failed each time, swallowed up in tears.<br/><br/>And just as the tears flooded his eyes, all the images of his years of loss and grief and pain flooded his mind, cascading through him in relentless torrents, racking him to his core. Lasan, his comrades and friends and family, his Rebel comrades who had become like family. So many and so much that had fallen to horrendous evil and that he had been powerless to save...<br/><br/>He was just as powerless now, unable to do anything but stand there, feeling the tears burning on his face, clutching her close. Her, his Shulma, his Other Lasat. Lasan’s most precious treasure, safe from harm, here in his embrace.<br/><br/>Lasan was here. Lasan was <em>her.</em><br/><br/>And then he found words again: “I’m sorry… Shulma, darlin’, I’m sorry—I’m <em>really, really</em>—”<br/><br/>He broke off as she looked up at him, emerald eyes still streaming, and nuzzled her face against his, letting her tears mix with his. The sparkling drops on her cheek were like new nighttime stars. <em>Karabast, she was lovely…</em><br/><br/>He breathed in and struggled to continue. “I mean, I thought you were—y’know—after all that happened an’ all—”<br/><br/>“Zeb, Zeblove… I’m here, love, and so—so are you—” Her voice quavered as a sob racked her. He gripped her; she collected herself and looked up at him again. “Oh, dearest… look at you…”<br/><br/>“Yeah, look at me… I’m a right mess...”<br/><br/>“No, no! You’re my same dear Zeb—only—” She stopped short and her eyes widened. With a trembling finger she traced gently from his brow ridge down around his eye, then followed the path the tears had left on his cheek. “Only there’s a light shining in you…”<br/><br/>Zeb shifted, heat blooming in his face with her every tiny motion. Finally he managed a chuckle of sorts. “This one of your <em>mystic</em> things?”<br/><br/>“Yes, I’m afraid so.” She smiled for a moment through her tears, then her finger continued downward to stroke his fringe. “Oh, Zeblove, they destroyed almost everything, but they couldn’t destroy your hope and your strength and your pride, and you haven’t had to endure it all alone, and that’s—that’s what the light is—and, oh”—she gasped as she touched his brow ridge again—“you’ve been through the Maze, I can feel it—you’ve seen Lira San! Oh, it <em>was</em> you, it <em>was</em> you!”<br/><br/>“Darlin’, darlin…” Zeb sighed and lowered his eyes even as he took Shulma’s hand from his face and kissed it. For a few moments he stood there, squeezing her hand in both of his, listening to the splashing of the waterfall and the distant keening of the insects, and <em>not</em> wanting to look at those beautiful, piercing emerald eyes. How could he when the old feelings of inadequacy, unworthiness, and unreadiness were rushing back over him?<br/><br/>And yet—at the same time—to be here, so close to <em>her...</em><br/><br/>“Look, er… we’ll go there together someday, it’s beautiful… but… I, er…”<br/><br/>“But what?”<br/><br/>“Well… sometimes I think about it, an’... maybe it shouldn’t’ve been me. It should’ve been you. Or... one o’ your shaman friends or or somethin’. But not me. Definitely not me.”<br/><br/>“Why not, love?”<br/><br/>“Because… because I just dunno if I’m really <em>worthy </em>o’ this. I’m just a soldier, not a—an’ what if—I mean, I already failed us once before, an’—”<br/><br/>“Zeblove!” Shulma placed both hands urgently around his neck. “You did not fail us the first time and you most certainly will not fail us now!”<br/><br/>“Aw, darlin’...” He sighed, once again looking downward. (But that touch, those whispersilken fingerpads on him…) “If only y’ knew…”<br/><br/>“I <em>do</em> know. You <em>are</em> worthy.” So saying, she took one side of the long white cloak from her shoulder and began to wrap it around her husband’s shoulders, drawing him close so that their brow ridges touched. “Who could possibly be more worthy than the Last Warrior of Lasan?”<br/><br/>“Aw, er, well…” Zeb felt himself leaning closer, his nose brushing hers, his hand moving under the cloak to encircle her waist.<br/><br/>“Who <em>is</em> the Child of Lasan, the hope of the future and of all eternity…” Closer, nuzzling his cheek and his beard. “And who is only a fool when he underestimates his own infinite worth…”<br/><br/>“Heh… yeah… I guess…” Oh, her breath on his face, her scent, so sweet and <em>so very Lasat—</em><br/><br/>That was it. He couldn’t hold back any longer. Neither could she.<br/><br/>They kissed.<br/><br/>Everything was in their kiss. The gleam of the starlight, the redness of the cliff, the song of the waterfall. All the strength, beauty, and vibrance of the Lasat people, persisting against all odds. All the joy of their bright days on Lasan: its sunwashed cliffs, its majestic forests, its purple-gold skies. All the destruction and horror of the Siege, the searing pain of their losses, the sorrow of their long exile. All the friendships that had brightened that exile, all the joyful companionship that had brought them hope when there was no hope. The sparkling brightness of all their tears, all their smiles. And all the splendor and promise of Lira San.<br/><br/>For Lira San was here. Lira San was <em>her.</em><br/><br/>Yes: all the fullness and brightness of the new-ancient homeworld was there, between them and around them and within them, in the passionate press of lips against lips, nose against nose, fur against fur, scent against scent.<br/><br/>And all the while the breeze breathed around them, the waterfall sang to them, and the stars and moons glittered down on them as they stood there, together, on the high places.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Zeb’s reminiscences of his visit to Lira San at the end of “Legends of the Lasat” are pure speculative headcanon on my part. Even though we heard zero about his time there in the show itself, how could it not have been a breathtakingly beautiful place, and how could it not have made an impression on him?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Many thanks again to <b>aikisenshi</b> for the generous loan of her Ryn musicians (which includes the younger Ryn dancer who also plays fiddle: Wenna, daughter of Sennah and Danyal).</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Aw, karabast...”<br/>
<br/>
“Rrhu’karabast’aka...”<br/>
<br/>
Zeb and Shulma sighed simultaneously as they emerged from their kiss several long moments later to find themselves no longer alone. Sounds and lights were filtering up from below them: a small crowd of beings—all from the coronation ceremony back at the Temple of Mak-Gu-Fina—had gathered at the base of the cliff, many holding glowrods or lumas, and a variety of speeders, swoops, and other conveyances sat parked behind them.<br/>
<br/>
Still wrapped together in the cloak, the two Lasat scanned the crowd below. Their species’s acute vision allowed them to read each facial expression with clarity. The pink-haired culture minister was there, along with several of her colleagues and some local dignitaries, and a worried look furrowed her already-lined face as she conversed with them in hushed, urgent tones. Many of the Rebels from the <em>Amarcordia</em> were there; there were whooping, whistling, and shouts of “Go, Chosen Servant!” from some of Zeb’s rowdier comrades. But Sabine was there too, busily and lovingly sketching the scene before her in the small sketchbook she always kept with her, and her occasional upward glances had something of awe in them. There was the insectoid from the marksmanship competition, who stood stock still, one gloved, three-fingered hand held upward in the direction of the lovers as though feeling the air for rain; beside her now stood a red-braided Human female with her hands in her pockets and an astromech droid with a macrobinocular attachment extended upward. And there were some of the court dancers and the Ryn musicians; the dark-furred lead quetarrist occasionally plucked chords and snatches of melody on his instrument, while the red-furred lead singer leaned on his shoulder. All beheld the scene above them with various combinations of concern, joy, wonder, and gobsmacked astonishment.<br/>
<br/>
Similar emotions played on Zeb and Shulma’s faces as they looked down at the crowd, then at each other, then at the crowd again, then at each other again. “Do you… know any of these people?” Shulma asked her husband.<br/>
<br/>
“Yeah, some of ’em… that bunch over there, an’ the lady in Mando armor with the drawin’ pad... don’t worry, she’s really good… anyway, they’re good friends, you’ll get to meet ’em.” He lowered his voice suddenly to a whisper. “We’re all in the Rebellion together.”<br/>
<br/>
Her face brightened. “I always knew you would join them.”<br/>
<br/>
“Heh, Ashla, right?”<br/>
<br/>
“Ashla, yes… and the fact that my Zeblove never, ever gives up the fight.” She nestled her head on his shoulder. “I... don’t suppose the Rebellion would have a place for a lowly spark-flinger like me?”<br/>
<br/>
“Aw, darlin’, of course they would. Y’know, they’ve got a few others like you already. There’s this one pilot—”<br/>
<br/>
He was cut short by a sudden loud, crackling noise of static from the base of the cliff, followed by the loudhailer-amplified voice of the culture minister: “Now, I’m sure there’s a <em>perfectly reasonable explanation</em> for all this…”<br/>
<br/>
“Aw karabast… Right.” Zeb cleared his throat, stepped forward, his arm still around Shulma, and called down to the beings assembled below. “Yeah, so… this is my wife. My, er, long-lost wife,” he added quickly for emphasis as gasps and murmurs arose. “From, er, Lasan.”<br/>
<br/>
More gasps arose, as did some applause. Shulma nodded. “Yes, he’s my husband.”<br/>
<br/>
“It’s… er… a long story,” Zeb continued, turning to face his no-longer-lost wife, who leaned up to kiss him amid the laughter, tears, and cheers of the crowd.</p>
<hr/><p>Once the culture minister had heard Zeb and Shulma’s story (or at least the abbreviated version thereof, because it was getting late and cooling off), all of her consternation about ruined ceremonies and broken protocols melted into effusive sentimentality, and she declared that she had never seen a more fitting conclusion to the Days of Love and Light in all her twenty-odd years serving the Khorassani culture ministry. She invited the two Lasat to stay another week in Khorassograd as guests of the culture ministry, all expenses paid. It didn’t take much urging from Shulma and his Rebel comrades for Zeb to agree to this invitation.<br/>
<br/>
The culture minister also chauffeured Zeb and Shulma back to Khorassograd in her own speeder, and the others followed in the other speeders and swoops. Once they were all back in town, the minister wasted no time in making all necessary preparations for her guests’ sojourn, while Rebels set about planning for their Lasat friends’ eventual safe return to Alliance headquarters, discussing rendezvous points, code phrases, and hyperspace byways. The Gand, the red-haired Human, and their astromech joined in, offering the use of their own ship in transporting the couple anywhere they might need to go. Zeb, meanwhile, who didn’t want to think about such things just yet, dashed off a quick message for Sabine to bring to Hera—er, General Syndulla—explaining everything. (He knew she would understand.)<br/>
<br/>
Sabine showed Zeb and Shulma the sketch she had made at the foot of the cliff. It was a delicate croquis in pencil, simple but tender in its lines, showing the two cloak-wrapped, pointed-eared figures kissing on the jagged cliffs beneath a small, round moon. (“Aw karabast, that’s <em>us?!</em>” yelped Zeb, his cheeks purpling deeply, upon which Shulma smiled at Sabine and said, “He was right, you <em>are </em>good.”) The Mandalorian said she planned to use it as the basis for a larger painting, and after snapping a quick holo of the sketch with her wrist comm, she signed it and gave it to the Orrelioses as a gift.<br/>
<br/>
The Ryn musicians treated everyone to a final impromptu serenade. The dark brown quetarrist and the orange-red singer joined voices in some of their people’s sublime love songs, and the younger Ryn female who had been among the dancers joined them, playing haunting countermelodies on a small fiddle she held low on her arm. All through the evening there was much exchanging of introductions, handshakes, hugs, pleasantries, laughter, and even a few tears, until gradually everyone retired for the night.</p>
<hr/><p>As for Zeb and Shulma, they were exhausted. Once back at the culture ministry guest suite, they immediately retired to bed and lay down together. They didn’t say anything; they didn’t need to. They barely moved; they didn’t need to. The warm, bright Lira San of their embrace was enough. There they stayed, holding each other, feeling each other’s warmth and breath and heartbeat, taking in each other’s sweet, musky essence till sleep overtook them.<br/>
<br/>
And that night, even after all had gone dark and silent, Khorassograd was full of love and light.</p>
<hr/><p><br/>
<b><em>From the Journal of Shulma Trilasha Orrelios</em></b><br/>
<br/>
O Ashla beyond all things sovereign and beloved—<br/>
<br/>
O heart of mine, soul of mine, body of mine—<br/>
<br/>
O my Garazeb, my love—dearest husband, warrior, bristlecone, CHILD OF LASAN—!<br/>
<br/>
Oh, I shall write more of it—all of it—some other time, once I have some time to collect my thoughts. But I cannot now. I simply cannot now. It is too magnificent, too overwhelming. I am blinded by the brightness and melted by the heat. All is you, all is us, all the prophecies are fulfilled.<br/>
<br/>
And I—all I can do is languish here in your embrace, saying and singing to you the words of the Seer to the Child:<br/>
<br/>
<em>Sleep now, beloved Child of Lasan, my strong one and my sweet honor. Your trials are over, your battles are won; rest from them in my arms, pillowed on my breasts. We have stood together on the high places, in the light of all the star clusters; now let my stripes bind your wounds, let my tears wash away your pain. Warm your shivering limbs in the softness of my fur. Together, embracing and enfolding, we are peace, we are bliss, we are home.</em><br/>
<br/>
<em>Sleep now, sweet strong one. You have come home, at last, for always.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here is a list of the flashbacks and quotations from other Lasan Series stories that appear throughout this story. All are my work except where otherwise noted.</p><p><strong>Chapter I</strong><br/><br/>“My queen… all night long”: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22988539/chapters/54959317">Feel Safe at Night</a><br/><br/>“MY QUEEN… at the festival, in the temple”: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337692/chapters/65672026">Shaman, Traveler, Oracle, chapter 30</a><br/><br/><strong>Chapter II</strong><br/><br/>“The southern part of the parade grounds… by event and age group”: <a href="https://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-beginning-of-honor-rebels-zeb-backstory-complete-author-responses-12-29-17.50045958/">The Beginning of Honor, chapter 1,</a> by Raissa Baiard<br/><br/>“And grasping the sheer rock… rustling light enfolded him”: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930813/chapters/50137517">Light of Lasan, chapter 4</a><br/><br/><strong>Chapter III</strong><br/><br/>“Zeb glanced around… straight through him”: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/17136161">“I am my prayer to you”</a><br/><br/>“Run from Lira Zel… and a gut wound”: <a href="https://boards.theforce.net/threads/the-beginning-of-honor-rebels-zeb-backstory-complete-author-responses-12-29-17.50045958/#post-54484918">The Beginning of Honor, chapter 3</a>, by Raissa Baiard<br/><br/><strong>Chapter IV</strong><br/><br/>“If you can walk, you can climb”: <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25337692/chapters/64220239">Shaman, Traveler, Oracle, chapter 20</a></p>
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